11
The next two days passed uneventfully, though Juliet felt jumpy and unable to concentrate. She busied herself over the weekend with morning runs, followed with thank-you cards and organizing the mountain of details her father would need to take care of after her mother’s death.
First, he’d need to meet with the attorney to start the probate process. Social Security forms would have to be completed and mailed in, health insurance and credit cards canceled, automatic payments for the gym membership stopped, and bank accounts changed over. He should schedule a meeting with the accountant to reevaluate the retirement plan and tax strategies, and collect on her mother’s life insurance policies.
Juliet hoped creating the list might satisfy the guilty ache in her gut.
It didn’t.
So she turned to cleaning her condo. Despite knowing the maid service would show up next Wednesday, she poured a generous amount of bleach into a bucket of soapy water and wiped down the shelves in her refrigerator. Using an old toothbrush, she scoured the baseboards. She shined the bathroom mirrors and scrubbed her toilets.
The smell of Comet and Windex reminded Juliet of her mother in rubber gloves, working out her frustrations on the bathroom sinks. Back then, it seemed her mother cleaned a lot of sinks.
With her toilets and showers sparkling, Juliet resorted to watching television. She turned the set on and clicked past the religious channels, even the one with Pastor Roper. She couldn’t bear to hear any more about how God would get you through hard times. Religious platitudes could never minimize the vacancy she felt inside.
She had her mother’s Bible—one of many keepsakes she’d secreted away as mementos. Juliet tucked the worn leather-bound book away in a drawer, not ready to scrutinize the underlined passages and read her mother’s handwritten notes in the margins. Someday maybe, when her heart didn’t feel so splintered.
Juliet nestled back against the sofa and scrolled past any program too serious. She lost herself in a couple of commercials, one for a new migraine pharmaceutical and another promoting flood insurance, then caught the last few minutes of an old Gilligan’s Island rerun. Something felt appealing about the group of castaways who ran into a storm and got lost.
When the episode wrapped up, she moved on to a shopping channel, drawn to a tube of highlighter guaranteed to erase dark under-eye circles and make a person look less tired.
On impulse, she ordered.
Juliet looked up at the ceiling. “Okay, Mom. No laughing. It’s been a really hard week.”
Suddenly, tears formed. How could she spend a lifetime without her mother?
Using the back of her hand, she swiped her cheeks and clicked the remote again, this time stopping on a news channel.
“The nation’s top disease detectives have gathered in central Texas tonight in search of the cause of a mysterious and deadly outbreak of E. coli. It is an especially virulent strain, with a number of victims already affected.
“There is concern that this outbreak will spread, extending past the nearly dozen cases known so far. Sadly, one child has died, and scientists are continuing their search for a possible link.”
Juliet leaned forward and turned up the volume.
“Authorities acknowledge they are in a race against the clock to isolate the source and remove it from the market. Samples taken from those in the hospital reveal identical molecular and pathological structure, pointing to a centralized source. All known cases so far have been limited to San Antonio, giving officials reason to believe there is a local origin.
“Until the CDC officials determine the cause, the public is urged to take proper precautions. Thoroughly cook meat products, particularly ground beef and chicken. Clean fresh produce, and wash cooking utensils and hands after handling food items.”
Juliet chewed at the inside of her cheek. With everything that had transpired in the last days, she’d nearly pushed the news item from her thoughts.
The heated exchange between Juliet and her father replayed in her mind—and how her explosive reaction to his denunciation of corporate food safety had ignited a weapon of mass destruction. Her mother the target.
Despite her good intentions, anger flared yet again.
This time, Juliet doused her emotions with a dose of reason. A toddler was dead. Somewhere in San Antonio, a mother grieved the loss. Another person with a gaping hole in her heart. A condition Juliet found far too familiar.
Her hand reached for her phone. She scrolled through her contact list and dialed.
“Hey, you’ve reached Greer Latham. I’m unable to take your call. Please leave a message.”
Juliet scowled and waited for the beep. “It’s Juliet. I know I’m scheduled to take another week, but I’m coming in tomorrow morning. I don’t know if you’ve been listening to the news, but I think it’s important I get back.”
She clicked off and put the phone on the counter. That was the second time they’d failed to connect this weekend.
When she stepped from the shower a half hour later, she heard her phone ringing in the other room. Juliet pulled on her robe and dashed down the hall, scrambling to pick up, but too late. She’d missed Greer’s call. Almost immediately, an alert sounded indicating he’d left a message.
“Hey, babe. Sorry I keep missing you. And I wish I’d made the funeral on Friday. Things at work have been so crazy that I just couldn’t get away. But hey, I heard your message and you don’t have to rush back. Malcolm Stanford has the lab covered. Take the time you need. Call some girlfriends. Go shopping. You deserve it after . . . well, after everything. Besides, I’ll call you if anything comes up. You know that.”
The phone beeped, cutting him off.
Several seconds passed before Juliet pulled the phone from her ear and slowly returned it to the counter. She clutched her robe against her chilled skin and let her hand trail across the granite, giving his message time to incubate.
As a food safety professional, she’d learned to distill facts and come to a calculated and reasonable conclusion. But it didn’t take a highly trained microbiologist to connect these dots.
In the middle of an outbreak in their city, Greer Latham wanted her to go shopping.
In that moment, she knew returning to work tomorrow was the right decision.
Juliet pulled her keys from her bag and unlocked her parents’ front door. She gave a quick knock, then pushed the door open. “Dad?” she hollered.
“In here, JuJu.” His voice came from the kitchen, where she found him wearing one of her mother’s aprons. He stood in front of the stove with a pair of tongs in his hand.
Juliet placed her purse on the table, next to a bowl of half-eaten Cheerios.
“You’re a little early,” he said, and turned down the flame.
“Sorry, traffic was light on a Sunday night.”
“Hope you’re hungry.” He grabbed the shaker and sprinkled salt across the food in the sizzling pan.
Stopping short of kissing him on his cheek, she tentatively placed her hand on his back and peeked over her dad’s shoulder at the pan filled with chicken, fried crispy golden. “What’s this? You don’t cook.”
He gave a halfhearted shrug. “I—I guess I just wanted some of her smell around.”
She frowned, confused. “You think Mom smelled like fried chicken?”
“Ah, you know what I mean.”
Juliet patted him, noticing how gray his hair had become at the temples. “Well, what can I do to help?”
He reached for the pepper. “You don’t cook either.”
She stepped back and rubbed her hands together. “Can’t be that hard, can it?” She handed him the platter from the counter and watched as he pulled the chicken from the pan with the tongs. “What do you want me to do?”
“You can make the gravy,” he said. “I’m no good at it.”
Turned out neither was she. But neither of them mentioned the fact as they sat at the table, silently eating.
Juliet could tell her dad was struggling to cope. His face was stubbled with growth, and he hadn’t bothered to put on his standard button-down, wearing only a white undershirt. She doubted he’d even taken a shower since Friday, from the looks of his hair.
After being so angry with him for all those years, Juliet barely knew how to comfort him. Only that she wanted to somehow.
“So, how do you like the gravy, Dad?”
He glanced up. “The gravy? It’s good—really good.”
“Liar,” she teased. “It’s as lumpy as an armadillo’s back. But thanks for the compliment.”
“Tastes just like your mother’s.” To prove his point, he scooped a large bite of potatoes and gravy from his plate and into his mouth.
“Like you often said, nobody could cook like Mom.” Juliet reached for her glass of tea. “Least of all me.”
He placed his fork down along his plate and looked across the table. “She lives on in you, you know.” His eyes filled with emotion. “You have her pretty eyes, and your hands are identical. You’re smart as a whip. Just like Carol.”
Juliet savored the rare compliments. She found herself wondering what it would be like to reach across the table for his hand. No person on earth shared her pain and understood the depth of this loss except him. Likely he’d suffered the same guilt too—the remorse she battled in her mind over the role they’d both played in the fact her mother was no longer here.
Despite medical evidence that might prove otherwise, Juliet knew their verbal altercation that night had fatally wounded the person they both loved the most.
And so did he.
Later, as they sat on the couch going through some old family photos, Juliet draped her mother’s afghan over her legs and ventured a compliment of her own. “You—uh, I can see why she was drawn to you . . . Well, what I mean is, you were a looker back then.”
Her comment hit its mark, and her father grinned. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
Their relationship sat atop a fault line. One wrong move by either of them and the foundation of this fragile relationship might crumble. Despite the risk, Juliet wanted to move ahead.
For her mother.
She pulled a snapshot from the box. “Remember this?”
Her dad took the photo of her and her mother running hand in hand toward a hillside covered in bluebonnets. “Yeah, I do,” he said softly. “We took an extended weekend and headed to the Hill Country for a little getaway. Your mother had that station wagon crammed to the hilt. I suggested she might save some room for you.”
Juliet nodded. “And she gave me a history lesson during the drive.”
He rubbed his chin, smiling. “Ah yes. You leaned forward from the backseat and asked why there was a sign pointing to Lyndon Johnson’s ranch.”
Juliet laughed. “Which prompted an introduction to his presidency and the Kennedy shooting.”
“And the whole conspiracy theory, from her very liberal Oregon point of view,” he inserted. “I glanced in the rearview mirror and you rolled your eyes, bored to death.” He fingered the photo. “So I diverted her attention by pointing out the bluebonnets, and she squealed and told me to pull over. You quickly took advantage of the opportunity and begged to get out for a closer look.” Her father placed the photo back in the box. “One of the rare times you and I joined forces and pulled one over on your mom.”
Juliet leaned back, enjoying the memory. She also remembered walking back to the car and seeing her parents walk with her dad’s arm around her mother’s shoulders. After they’d tucked her back inside the car, she looked out the open window. Her dad patted her mom’s bottom and whispered in her ear. She’d laughed and slapped at his hand. Told him, “Later, Bennett, after Juliet is asleep.”
Juliet shifted the box of photos onto the sofa and pulled the afghan from her lap. “You need a refill on your iced tea?”
He glanced at his nearly full glass and shook his head.
Juliet grabbed her glass and headed for the kitchen. When she returned, she slipped back into place next to him. “What’s that one?”
He held up a photo of her in a little white lab coat. The one he’d taken of her that day he came to her classroom. “This is my favorite photo of you. Pretty, smart, and mouthy. But it was that fierce intensity I loved most.”
Juliet stole a glance at him, puzzled. She wasn’t used to this side of her father—the one generous with praise. Losing her mother had somehow softened his sharp edges. Despite feeling awkward, she reached out and squeezed his hand.
Their eyes locked, and a long overdue moment of understanding passed between them before they turned their attention back to the box.
“Who’s this?” Her father extended a photograph of her with another little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s nightgowns and high heels. Juliet took the snapshot, pulling it closer for examination.
She shook her head. “I don’t know—” She stopped midsentence. “Oh,” she said, her heart thudding painfully. “Just a friend.”
Juliet watched her father to see his reaction. He scooped another photo from the box. “Oh, hey—here’s one of you in your graduation cap and gown.”
Unexpectedly, her eyes burned with tears. She quickly blinked away the show of emotion.
Unaware, her father burst into laughter. “You probably don’t remember back when you were six.” He held a different photo in his hand. “This is when you took my razor and shaved off an eyebrow. Your mom was horrified, of course. Even more so when you used a black marker and drew it back on.” He extended the photo so she could take a look. “You sure kept us on our toes.”
Like a robot, Juliet glanced at the photo and contrived an artificial smile.
No matter how you cook an onion—one burp and the true flavor appears.
She looked at her father, his attention already directed back to the box. Clearly, he didn’t recognize the girl in the photo. But then, how could he? He’d remember her much differently.
Juliet stared at the photo in her trembling hand. “Why did you do that to Mom?”
He looked confused. “Do what?”
She looked up at him, challenging him with an angry silence. He noticed then—her eyes.
He sighed in desperate exasperation. “Juliet, those women. They meant nothing.”
She handed him the photo. “Even her?”
Despite the shame that suddenly shadowed his face, her father stared at her in quiet protest. But then, how could he possibly explain?
Her parents’ wedding portrait sat perched on the nearby sofa table. Beside it, a blue hydrangea from the casket spray lay drying.
Juliet lifted her chin and glared back at her father with renewed disdain. “Did you think I didn’t know?”
His jaw tightened. “It was none of your business.”
She looked at him with open-mouthed astonishment. “It was very much my business. She was my best friend.”
She watched him look down at the photo.
“I could hear Mom cry at night.” She shook her head. “She was never the same after—something inside her withered.”
Her father leapt from the sofa. He paced the floor like a caged animal, fighting for control. “I made a mistake. I—I never meant to hurt either of you.” He ran his shaking hand through his hair. It was clear her comments had hit the intended mark. “I spent years trying to make it up to her. To you,” he said. “I swear, I stopped drinking and never looked back.”
She looked at him, eyes blazing. “And she bought it.”
“She forgave me,” he corrected. “And I thought maybe you—”
Juliet tossed the afghan aside and pounced, her voice shaking with anger. “Yeah?” She moved to within inches of his face. “Nancy was barely nineteen years old. When you climbed in bed with my best friend, who were you thinking of then?” Not able to stop, she added, “You killed Mom. And I’m not talking about last Sunday.”
Her father’s face grew dark. He raised his hand as if to hit her.
She glared. “Do it.”
Suddenly, her father grabbed her shoulder with one hand. With the other, he scooped her purse and pressed it against her chest. “Get out.” He pushed her toward the door. “Get out of your mother’s house.”
Breathless, she stumbled forward. Before she could catch her bearings, he took hold of her arm and pulled her to the arched door.
She tore from his grip. “What’s the matter? You can’t take the truth?”
“Get out,” he repeated. He opened the door and shoved her onto the landing.
Blinded with tears, she quickly made her way down the front steps and scrambled to her car. Inside, she stabbed the key in the ignition and started the engine. Sobbing, she put her Jeep in gear and tore down the street, sending a screeching sound into the hot autumn night.
At the light, her fist pounded the steering wheel.
She hated him.